The gurgling sound of the brook
a few steps off was a great deal more soothing to her ear than
Miss Fortune's sharp tones. By-and-by a horseman came in sight
at the far end of the road, and the brook was forgotten. What
made Ellen look at him so sharply? Poor child! she was always
expecting news. At first she could only see that the man rode
a white horse; then, as he came nearer, an odd looped-up hat
showed itself — and something queer in his hand — what was it?
who is it? — the old newsman! Ellen was sure. Yes — she could
now see the saddle-bags, and the white horsetail set in a
handle, with which he was brushing away the flies from his
horse; the tin trumpet was in his other hand, to blow withal.
He was a venerable old figure, with all his oddities; clad in
a suit of snuff brown, with a neat, quiet look about him, he
and the saddle-bags and the white horse jogged on together as
if they belonged to nothing else in the world but each other.
In an ecstasy of fear and hope, Ellen watched the pace of the
old horse to see if it gave any sign of slackening near the
gate. Her breath came short, she hardly breathed at all, she
was trembling from head to foot. _Would_ he stop, or was he
going on? Oh! the long agony of two minutes! He stopped. Ellen
went towards him.
"What little gal is this?" said he.
"I am Ellen Montgomery, Sir," said Ellen, eagerly, "Miss
Fortune's niece — I live here.
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